No Good Goblin
by Discreetly
Summary: The only good goblin is a dead goblin. Or at least, that's how it's supposed to be.


"I heard there were goblins."

Old Farmwoman stared at the armored man at her doorstep. He was not what she had expected.

Goblin Slayer was what the singers had called him, but what those traveling minstrels had neglected to mention was the rundown quality of the fabled hero's gear. He had plate armor, but it did not gleam or shine, rather there was not an inch of it that was not nicked, scratched or smudged. He had no great weapon to speak of, only a short sword slung at his hip and a worn-down buckler on his arm.

He was shorter than the Old Farmwoman thought he would be, too. Only a few inches taller than her.

But if Goblin Slayer noticed her disappointment, he gave no sign of it - his heavy iron helmet covered his face completely and made him inscrutable.

Old Farmwoman sighed. She knew she had no better option. "Yes, I have a goblin problem. Would you like to come in, we can-"

"No. Here is fine. Tell me about the goblins."

Old Farmwoman frowned, but it was better this way. Straight to business then. "Not goblins. Goblin. Just one."

"Hrm." A grunt of acknowledgement.

Old Farmwoman had feared the man would walk out on her right then and there with that little fact, but he didn't. Just as the singers had said, wherever there were goblins, great or few, Goblin Slayer would hunt them down.

"Go on," Goblin Slayer said.

"It's only the one goblin, but he's been harassing me and my farm for weeks now. He comes in the middle of the night and steals whatever he can. Mostly eggs and chickens, but it's all I have." Old Farmwoman ground her teeth together. "If that was the end of it, then it'd be something I could handle myself. But two days ago, the little monster wasn't satisfied with stealing my livestock. He lured me out from my cabin by causing a ruckus at the henhouse and then snuck into my home. He took some gold, some valuables. And he stole my canary."

"A canary?"

"My pet bird. The only friend a lonely old woman like me has out here on the frontier." Old Farmwoman glared at Goblin Slayer. "I want you to get my bird back."

Goblin Slayer was silent for a moment. Then, just as Old Farmwoman feared he might refuse, Goblin Slayer spoke, "I don't rescue birds. I kill goblins. Which way did he run off?"

"That way," Old Farmwoman said, pointing north. Goblin Slayer gave one glance in the direction and immediately began to walk away. "W-wait!" she called out.

He paused.

"Take me with you," Old Farmwoman said.

He stared at her.

"I'll stay out of your way. I'll do whatever you ask, but let me come along."

The silence stretched long. Something Old Farmwoman was beginning to understand was probably a regular occurrence for Goblin Slayer.

"When was the last time you bled?" he asked.

Old Farmwoman flinched. "What?"

"Your cycle. When a woman bleeds for the month. When was the last time?"

Old Farmwoman started to blush at the abrupt question, but she shook her head. She refused to be shamed. "I haven't bled for years."

"Good."

" _Good?_ What do you mean _good?_ "

"Goblins have a keen sense of smell. They can smell fertile women from far away. But if you're past the age, then they won't notice you as easily."

Old Farmwoman digested that little goblin fact before she registered Goblin Slayer's real meaning. "So you'll let me come along?" she asked.

"Do as you please," Goblin Slayer said. Then without looking back he began to walk ahead.

Still rude as ever, but Old Farmwoman refrained from saying so. If she was to get what she wanted, she had no other option. And so the old farmwoman hurried to keep up with Goblin Slayer.

* * *

Young Scholar pressed a hand into the dirt, he felt out an impression in the ground that was softer than the rest. It was a footprint, too thin to be a man's, too long for a child. A goblin's.

Judging by the softness, the faint wetness to the dirt, the track was recent. Maybe only an hour or two old.

Or at least that's what Young Scholar thought. He knew _of_ tracking, though he hadn't the experience to back it up, everything he knew of the subject came from books. And though he had studied the matter rigorously (as he did all things), there was still a difference between theory and reality.

Something rustled in the bushes behind him and Young Scholar jumped a foot in the air, scrambling to pull out his dagger. His robe billowed around him, getting in the way of his hands, he could not even pull the damn dagger out.

Details on drawing a dagger was not something the books had covered.

From the bushes appeared not a horde of angry goblins, but instead a battered looking knight wearing a humble and badly-scratched set of armor. Young Scholar could not quite relax though, because even a knight can turn to villainy if he was short on coin.

"H-h-hello there, fellow traveler!" Young Scholar said, trying to sound not as fearful as he felt. "What brings you to these parts?"

The knight did not answer. And Young Scholar felt the collar of his robe growing wet with sweat.

Before he could flee, another figure stumbled out from the bushes. An old woman, wrinkled, but lean and fit.

She stared at him incredulous. "Who are _you?_ "

She was a stranger, but at least she seemed a normal person. "I-I-I am Young Scholar," he said, "and who might you be?"

"I am Old Farmwoman and this is Goblin Slayer."

"The G-Goblin Slayer?"

The eponymous Golbin Slayer turned to look at Young Scholar. "Yes."

There was something about the man's gaze that made Young Scholar flinch. "I-I've heard about you," he said. "You've earned your name by all accounts."

Goblin Slayer stared at him.

"Nevermind that," Old Farmwoman spoke up, "What is a youngster like you doing out here in the woods by yourself? It's dangerous around these parts."

Young Scholar forced himself to stand a little straighter. "I am here to do research. I know it's dangerous, but I will not shirk away from the pursuit of knowledge."

"What the hell could you be researching way out here?"

Young Scholar glanced at Goblin Slayer who had barely spoken a word. His resolve hardened and he looked back at the old woman. "I am here to research goblins."

That got Goblin Slayer's attention. The battered warrior stepped forward, his iron helm bearing down on Young Scholar.

"What kind of research?" Goblin Slayer asked.

"It's uh, ah a behavioral study of sorts." Young Scholar swallowed, trying to find his voice. "I-I am trying to understand the nature of goblins. And I uh, heard a story about a goblin here. It got my interest so I came to investigate."

"Investigate?" Old Farmwoman scoffed. "By yourself? Boy, you're totally unprepared. If we had been a pair of goblins, you'd be dead already!"

Young Scholar's cheeks flushed red. "I would not have! I came prepared." He dug into his robes and finally pulled out dagger, brandishing it for the woman to see.

She laughed at the sight of it. "Boy, that's hardly enough to fight off a chicken, much less a goblin."

Young Scholar felt his cheeks turning red until he was sure he was as bright as a cherry.

Old Farmwoman wagged her finger at him. "You better go back home to -"

"What sort of story?" Goblin Slayer asked abruptly.

"Huh?"

"What sort of story did you hear about the goblin?"

"Oh." Young Scholar glanced at Old Farmwoman who was glaring at him, but it seemed she didn't dare interrupt Goblin Slayer. "Well, I heard from a few farmers around here that they've had their things stolen."

"Hah, of course!" Old Farmwoman barked. "There's a goblin around these parts!"

"Yes," Young Scholar nodded, "and he's stolen some food and animals, but that's not what brought me out here." He smiled, feeling excited at the chance to talk after so long alone in the woods. "Apparently, this goblin is interested in more than just food. He's been stealing _books!_ "

Goblin Slayer stared at him.

"Lies!" Old Farmwoman hissed. "Just gossip that's been dressed up to sound more exciting than it really is."

"So you've heard them speak of it?" Young Scholar asked.

Old Farmwoman flinched. "So what if I did? I knew it was nonsense."

"Perhaps," Young Scholar said, "but perhaps not."

"Nonsense," Old Farmwoman spat the word out.

Nonsense. Yes, that was the word his fellow scholars had said. Young Scholar remembered his master's words. It was true that goblins possessed intellect, language and a vicious cunning that let them survive out in the wild. But for a goblin to learn how to read? It was preposterous to think such a base creature could read when even most humans could not.

Young Scholar swallowed, but gave the old woman a steely gaze. "It's possible."

She sputtered, trying to conjure up the words that would properly convey her shock and disgust.

Goblin Slayer spoke before she could. "So the goblin can read."

Young Scholar perked up. "Yes-"

But Goblin Slayer was already walking away, following the tracks.

"W-w-wait!" Young Scholar ran to the side of the armored warrior. "If you acknowledge that the goblin can read, then surely you understand you can't just end his life!"

Goblin Slayer didn't deign to look at Young Scholar, didn't so much as slow his walk. "Why would I think that?"

"Because if the goblin can learn to read then that means it's capable of learning more! It could even be taught kindness rather than cruelty!"

"Maybe," Goblin Slayer said, but still he did not stop.

Young Scholar jumped in front of the armored man and threw out his arms. "Please! Don't go any further! Let me take this goblin, let me try and teach it to be better."

Goblin Slayer stopped and stood face to face with Young Scholar.

Sweat began to sprout all along Young Scholar's forehead. He was close enough to Goblin Slayer that he could smell the man. He carried the smell of dirt and dried blood. Young Scholar tried not to think about how many the man had killed.

Hands grabbed the front of Young Scholar's robe and jerked him to the side. Old Farmwoman had grabbed hold of him and she pushed him down to the ground.

"Go!" She shouted to Goblin Slayer. "I'll keep this fool busy. Go and kill that goblin!"

"N-no!" Young Scholar struggled to get up, but though the woman was old, she had spent her whole life out on the farm working the fields and her muscles were hard and tough. And though the Young Scholar was a man and though he was young, he had never lifted anything heavier than parchment and quill.

"Stay still, you brat," Old Farmwoman growled.

"No! You can't! Don't you see? This is our chance! We can end the fighting between goblin and human if we can just stop! If we can bridge the gap somehow, we don't have to do this anymore!"

"They're monsters! Murderers!"

"They fight us because we fight them!"

The woman howled, a wild furious sound. "They're rapists! They take women! Abuse them and rape them until there's nothing left but a husk of a person!"

Young Scholar swallowed, still trying to squirm out of the woman's vice-like grip. "It's all they know. They have no female goblins. It's the only way they can reproduce."

The woman punched the Young Scholar square in the face. "Idiot! Scum! Fool! They took my daughter! Ten years ago, they took my daughter and raped her until she was a corpse! And you tell me it's okay because it's just what they do?!"

Young Scholar's head lolled back, dazed from the blow as much as the words. "I-I'm sorry," he sputtered, "I didn't know…"

"Then shut up, already! Shut up and stop struggling!"

Was Young Scholar still struggling? His mind blurred, his head spun. He had never been punched before, but somehow his body was moving on its own, still trying to rise to reach the armored man who stood there, watching the two of them dispassionately.

"They can… they can be better," he gasped

"Shut up!"

"They're not born 're-they're ugly. Short. Stupid. Hated by all. No women would want them. That's why… in order to live on... that's why they have to-"

The woman punched him in the face. And then again and again. She straddled his chest, mounting him like a horse and she was free to rain down blow after blow with hard gnarled knuckles. Her eyes were filled with fury but wet with tears.

The blows halted for a moment, but not out of mercy. The woman picked up a rock and raised it over her head.

Before she could bring it crashing down, a hand grabbed her by the wrist.

"That's enough," Goblin Slayer said.

Old Farmwoman snarled, "Don't tell me he convinced you."

"No. He didn't."

"Good."

"Put the rock down. You'll kill him."

Old Farmwoman glanced down at the scholar. The boy's face was a puffy red mess, but there was the telltale sign of his chest rising and falling that indicated he still lived. "He deserves it," she said, "spouting that nonsense."

Goblin Slayer didn't reply. His grip on her wrist was firm.

"Ugh." Old Farmwoman flung the rock to the side and rolled off the Young Scholar. She let out a long sigh and took the moment to just sit there. "You're more soft-hearted than I thought."

"Killing humans doesn't interest me."

"Hah, of course, Goblin Slayer. That's not what you're named for."

"That's right."

"Hahaha," Old Farmwoman let her head fall. White strands of hair fell over her face and as she spoke, her voice grew bitter. "I lied about the canary. I had to. The other farmers, they didn't want to put up a quest on the goblin. It was just one and it didn't take much. _Idiots_ , but that would have been fine if it was only that. I could have killed the little monster myself once it came onto my land. But there was one family. One band of idiots that sent word out to an academy. They said this goblin was different. That it could speak, that it could read and write and that it had wanted books to learn more." She looked up at Goblin Slayer, her eyes cold and hard. "But you understand, don't you Goblin Slayer? You're just like me. They took someone from you, I can tell. You hate them. Maybe even more than me. There's no way those monsters could be anything but evil."

Goblin Slayer stared at her. As ever, there was no way to tell what the man was thinking, his iron helmet covered all. When he spoke, his voice was just as emotionless. "Evil or good doesn't concern me. I slay goblins."

Goblin Slayer turned and walked away, following the trail. This time neither the young scholar or the old farmwoman sought to follow him.

* * *

The cave was shallow, more of an indent in the side of a hill than an actual cavern. It had barely enough room to house a single goblin, and even less with the stacks of books lining the wall.

It had not noticed Goblin Slayer approach, too busy hunched over a book, poring over the words. Its face was buried so deep in the pages, that its long nose was pressed into the spine.

The arrow caught the goblin in the throat and tore out the side. A gush of blood painted the cave red and stained a row of books. The goblin fell over, and gasped for breath, but found only blood.

Goblin Slayer approached it carefully, keeping an eye out for traps or an ambush, but there was none. He came to the goblin and stood over its twitching body. The goblin was still bleeding out, crimson bubbles forming at its lips. Its misshapen yellow eyes swung wildly in their sockets until they found Goblin Slayer and latched on. It tried to raise a hand up. To attack? To beg?

There was no way to know. The hand grasped once at nothing before it fell limp, motionless. The goblin gurgled its last breath.

Goblin Slayer watched it die. It wasn't the first he had taken the time to study.

Young Scholar had been right about some things.

Goblins were twisted monstrous creatures. Ugly, short, stupid, crass and foul-smelling, that was all true. To find anyone, man or woman to love them in spite of that would be impossible. The world gave goblins no favors.

But Young Scholar had also been wrong.

The goblins didn't _have_ to do anything. Even if the whole world rejected them, hated them, they didn't have to kill or rape anyone. They had another option.

The goblins could just die.

If the only way they could live on was to hurt others then the noble thing for them to do would be to crawl into a cave and die.

But what goblin— or person would be willing to do that?

Goblin Slayer bent down and picked up the book the goblin had been reading. Blood drenched the pages, ruining them, but the book's cover was still clean enough to read.

There was only a single word there, printed in a loopy elaborate font:

 _Poems_

Goblin Slayer considered the word.

And he wondered.


End file.
